Final Rights (6 page)

“I appreciate all you did for me, Mazie, but
I’m a man now . . .”

“And a man has responsibilities, Harland.
One a yours is your mother.”

“She’s not my problem! She never did nothin’
for me, and I’m returning the favor!”

“I’m not axin’ you to take care of her,
Harland. I’m axin’ you to take care of your friends in Stumptown, even though
you pretend not to know us anymore.” Mazie did not try to hide her
disappointment. Much as Harland wanted to deny it, the force of Mazie’s love
held power over him. He felt his determination eroding as she held him in her
gaze.

“What do you think I can
do about her? She’s crazy and you know it. She won’t listen to anyone.” Rarely
did Harland feel helpless, but the idea that Mazie expected him to somehow
control Eulah overwhelmed him.

“She’s vexin’ us all, Harland. She roams
through the neighborhood in the middle a the night hollerin’ and raisin’ a
ruckus. I know you can’t do nothin’ when you in school, or out there on the
baseball field, but you gotta’ do something to keep her home at night. I ain’t
wantin’ to threaten, but she gonna’ get hurt by somebody purdy bad if she don’t
stop.”

For the first time in
his life, Harland felt a burden of responsibility for others settling onto his
shoulders. Not that he gave a hoot about Eulah. She could wander off into the
night and never come back and it would be all the better for him. But he did
care about his reputation and what Mazie thought of him. Harland truly owed
Mazie his life. If she needed him to do this one thing, he would have to find a
way to do it.

“
I’ll
figure somethin’ out, Mazie. I’ll do my best,” he conceded.

“Can’t ask no more’n
that. Please make sure your best is good ’nuf to let us sleep the night
through, Harland.”

And even as he resolved to pay his debt of
gratitude to Mazie by dealing with his crazy mother, he also decided in the
future to rigorously avoid ever owing anything to anyone.

Harland had little time
to follow through on his promise. Barely three weeks later, some boys
discovered Eulah’s body in a patch of woods near the river, dead apparently of
natural causes.

Harland was now an
orphan, his father having died several years earlier. As the only child,
Harland inherited the shanty and the land it sat on—valuable land on the
growing edge of Montford. He took his belongings out of the shack, poured a can
of kerosene on the floor and tossed a lit match inside as he exited for the
final time. The place had burned to the ground before the fire department
arrived.

There were questions about the fire, of
course. No more than a superficial investigation, but still he had to talk to
the inspectors. He stuck closely to the simple story he put together as he
waited for the fire to be extinguished.

“I was trying to light the old kerosene
lamp.”

“When I struck the match, I knocked the lamp
over and everything went up in flames.”

“Don’t know why I
didn’t get burned. Just lucky I guess.”

“I jumped out of the way. I’m an athlete,
you know. I can move fast and I did this time, that’s for sure.”

Eventually they left him alone sitting
outside the smoldering ruins. He breathed in the acrid smoke, a smug,
self-satisfied grin curling the corners of his mouth.

“
Such a
shame! That boy lost his mother and his house all at the same time.” The
sentiment echoed through town, voiced with a thinly disguised suggestion that
it wasn’t a shame at all.

Harland buried Eulah
and, he hoped, his childhood with her. He was sixteen years old. He had a job
at the hardware store downtown and friends he could stay with until he figured
out his next move. That move, when it came, proved a major turning point in his
life.

“You’re
Harland Freeman, aren’t you son?” The well-dressed man asking the question had
stopped Harland as he left work one day. “Didn’t your mama die and your house
over there on Pearson burn down a couple of weeks ago?”

Why is Mr. Howell interested in me? How
come he knows so much about me?
Harland
should have been aware that everyone in town knew about him now—not only his
name and where he worked, but many tidbits about his life before he became the talk
of the town. Harland knew Mr. Howell owned the shop two blocks up from the
hardware store. He had accumulated a sizable fortune as one of Asheville’s most
successful businessmen.

“Yes, that’s me.”
Harland knew he would get more from Mr. Howell by placing the burden of the
conversation on him rather than offering too much.

“Well I hope you’re doing okay, son.
Everyone has been pretty worried about you.”

“Really? Why?”

This unexpected question put Mr. Howell on
the spot.

“Well, you’ve got no family, and we just . .
. we . . . we’ve been concerned.”

“I’m fine. Thanks for asking, Mr. Howell.”
Harland flashed a big smile in the man’s direction, a real sincere-looking
expression, before turning to leave.

“Just a minute, son.” The use of “son”
annoyed Harland, but it also alerted him to the presence of an ulterior motive
behind this seemingly friendly exchange with an influential man who had never
spoken to him before.

“Yes?” And Harland waited.

“That land of yours has to be cleaned up,
you know. Have you made plans to get it done?”

This caught Harland off
guard. So glad to be rid of Eulah and the decrepit house, it hadn’t occurred to
him he had ongoing responsibility for the land. Unfortunately, not everything
had burned, and huge piles of junk still filled the otherwise-empty lot.

“I haven’t decided yet what I’ll do with
it.” No hint of the discomfort he felt inside.

“You probably don’t have much use for it,
and it’ll cost a good bit to clean it up. Don’t suppose you have any money for
that do you?”

“Well, I’m looking into
a few things . . .” Harland lied.

“You know, I could take care of it for you.
Buy the land and clean it up so you could get on with your life and not be
bothered with it.”

So that’s it. Excitement quickly replaced
the dread he had been feeling moments before. Mr. Howell’s offer to buy the
land came out of nowhere, and Harland’s shrewdness kicked in immediately.

“Really? That might be good.” Harland
flashed the smile again.

“It’s not worth much, of course. I could
give you $300 for it.”

“It’s a big piece of
land, I think, Mr. Howell. I’ll have to check into it.” Harland needed time to
confirm his belief the lot measured nearly an acre and research the going price
for that much acreage in Montford.

“Maybe $350. We’ll get it taken care of in a
couple of days, then?”

Too eager. It must be worth more than
that
. “I’ll think about it
and get back to you, Mr. Howell.”

“Well . . . you don’t want to wait too long,
son. I’m doing you a favor by taking it off your hands, you know.”

“Yes, sir. I understand completely.” And
Harland did understand,
completely.

Harland had always made it his business to
know who had money and who didn’t. One of those with money owned the store
where he worked. The next morning, he executed his newly formed plan.

“Good morning, sir.” Harland maintained a
friendly if reserved relationship with his boss. He followed orders, did the
work assigned to him efficiently and occasionally asked for additional tasks so
as to always appear industrious and occupied.

“Good morning to you, Harland. Fine day.”

“Yes sir, it is . . . I suppose.” The slight
pause, the feigned uncertainty caught Mr. Wagner’s attention.

“Something on your mind, Harland?” Mr.
Wagner considered himself a beneficent man, and he welcomed this rare
opportunity to prove himself helpful to Harland.

“Well, sir . . . if you don’t mind . . . I
wonder if you could offer some advice? Mr. Howell seems to want to buy my land
over there on Pearson. He offered me $350 and that seems like a lot of money to
me for such a little place, and all filled with debris the way it is. I’d like
to have the money, but I don’t want people to think I got too much for it—like
I’m greedy or something.”

The quick intake of
breath on Mr. Wagner’s part did not escape Harland’s notice.
Just as I thought.
I’ve got him.

Mr. Wagner took a moment before responding.

“Three hundred fifty dollars must seem like
a great deal of money to you, son.” That word again. Son. Harland kept his
irritation hidden.

“But it really is kind of low for the nice
piece of land you’ve got there. How big is it? I think I heard somewhere it was
an acre. Maybe in the paper after the fire?”

“I’m not sure, sir. About that I think.” In
fact, it fell barely shy of a full acre. Harland had already checked.

“Well then, you may be able to get more than
$350 for it. Why, I’ll take it off your hands and give you $400. How does that
sound?”

“Sounds mighty nice, Mr. Wagner, but surely
that’s too much?”

“Not at all, son. I’d be happy to help a
young man like you by paying him a fair price.”

Mr. Wagner confirmed Harland’s belief that
he had a valuable piece of property. He spent the next day having much the same
conversation with other local businessmen. He went back to Mr. Howell, who made
a counter offer. He entertained an even higher bid from the owner of the men’s
store on Patton Avenue. He made the rounds, reporting back to each man about
the higher offer from someone else. In the end, Mr. Wagner won the bidding war
and paid hundreds of dollars more than the first offer made by Mr. Howell. Harland
earned his nest egg and in the process gave birth to his reputation as a shrewd
businessman.

Plato once said: “The direction in which
education starts a man will determine his future in life.” Harland’s Stumptown
education set him on a path that eventually led to the pompous, self-absorbed
man standing at the curb, imagining his dream house on Chestnut Street. A man
who had decided at a very early age it was better to be rich than poor, selfish
than generous, haughty than humble. A man who Mazie, the only person who had
ever truly loved him, ultimately counted as one of the biggest disappointments
of her life.

Harland
had slipped unwillingly into memories of his childhood, and he brought himself
back now to focus on the sloped hill where he would build his new home.
Harland’s dream house would have turrets, sun rooms, an expansive wrap-around
sleeping porch, winsome nooks and crannies to delight visitors of all
persuasions and a glorious kitchen. The master bedroom would be massive in
proportion and decorated with the finest handmade furniture, linens and carpets
he could find. An elegant, expensive home with the relaxed comfort of a
mountain retreat—Harland knew he could make his dream a reality.

Finding the right architect proved more
difficult than he anticipated. Richard Sharp Smith had died years earlier. He
would have been Harland’s top choice. Instead he resigned himself to working
with lesser beings and eventually the plans were completed. But only after two
of the top architects in town had abandoned the project, unwilling to bend to
Harland’s demands for features out of character with the design styles they
created.

Harland insisted on the best craftsmen to
build his house, only those most in demand. For the door, one person stood
alone at the top of the list. Leland Howard. It would have to be Leland Howard,
even though getting that man to sign on would be an act of sheer will
triumphing over plodding stubbornness.

ELEVEN

2004

Darcel Grimes’ voice drifted from the television into the
kitchen where Tate busied herself preparing dinner. She typically listened
every evening to the six o’clock news on Channel 13, the local ABC affiliate,
to keep in touch with the outside world.

“Plans to demolish a
derelict mansion in the Montford historic district have neighbors taking sides
as to the best use of the prime location on Chestnut Street.”

Tate stopped cutting
vegetables and dashed into the living room just in time to see a shot of 305
Chestnut Street illustrating the news story.

T
he brief
piece highlighted the county’s plans to seize the property for non-payment of
taxes and auction it on the courthouse steps. A prominent local developer with
deep pockets appeared on camera speaking about his desire to tear down the
house and build eight small cottages on the site. The reporter interviewed two
neighbors who favored the idea and looked forward to the removal of the eyesore
which had blighted the neighborhood for decades. Another spokesman for the
local neighborhood association objected to anything diverging from the stately
single-family homes with spacious yards, which populated the area. No one, it
seemed, except Tate had any interest in saving the place.

This information could not have come at a
better time. After her initial surge of interest in saving the house, Tate had
reached what seemed like a dead end and her focus shifted back to the
renovations on Maplewood. It had been a couple of days since she’d really
thought much about 305. The story re-energized her. Tomorrow, she would dig in
again, and now she had a new starting place. She’d have to check with Holly
about the process involved in seizing and auctioning the property, but she
expected she would have to move quickly or the place would be lost.